Tag Archives: music

Trafalgar Sinfonia live in London review – a night to remember for years to come
25
Jul

On a rainy summers’ night in central London, a competent and faithful reproduction of one of classical music’s most recognised crowd-pleasers hardly pushed the envelope, but that’s besides the point; this was a night destined to be unforgettable due to everything except the music itself.

Iwas only a little annoyed to find the Circle line from Aldgate East station closed after I’d left my hostel on a drizzly evening in July. Three days into my daunting first solo trip to the capital, I was starting to feel naively at ease with the inner mechanisms of the big city. Not to worry, I thought, I’ll just catch a bus, which was just as exciting and novel as the tube with all its double-decker glory. Happy to find a spot at the front of the first floor, I settled in and watched the city flash red, white and green through a frame of raindrop-speccled glass. I was thrilled for my trip’s big finale to take place, kitted out in the most formal outfit I could bother to squeeze into my suitcase a few days earlier: black jeans rather than blue, a lightweight outer shirt unusually buttoned up. Tonight wasn’t just any gig – this was a classical concert in the pretty (yet relatively modest) church at St. Martin in the Fields, which also happened to be the only affordable venue offering concerts for the dates I’d be in town.

For starters, I knew nothing about the night’s performers. The Trafalgar Sinfonia, regular showcasers of Vivaldi at St. Martin, could be replaced with any dozen-strong chamber group from around the country for all I cared. Then there was the repertoire, which centred around a piece so painfully obvious and commercialised over the centuries that only non-committal classical fans like me would feel the urge to see it live when I’m sure there’s much more newer material to explore rather than drilling out the old favourites. For a little while I worried I was the only such fan in town as I ate a pre-concert bag of crisps beside the bronze lions, looking out for any signs of a queue forming at the firmly closed church doors. In the end it turned out there were perhaps 100 or so concertgoers who, like me, haven’t quite listened to enough classical music to dismiss Vivaldi’s great concerto as overplayed or overrated. By 8pm the pews were three-quarters full, although there was hardly a feeling of anticipation in the air. This was, after all, one of several identical ‘Four Seasons By Candlelight’ performances the Sinfonia were churning out over the course of several months.

“Candlelight” was a term used on the tickets and programming with a degree of creative freedom. A few coloured LED lights at the back and some garish fire exit indicators were enough to make the pair of candelabras seem little more than a decorative afterthought. Much more striking was the huge chandelier hung over the centre of the pews like a giant, draping spiders’ web, paired with a similarly netted front window pane which was eyecatching with its warped, spiralling lines, if somewhat bizarre in the context of a 16th century church.

The imitation of birdsong in Spring was remarkable, with each stroke of the bow summoning up a new thrush like a magician produces doves from a hat.

It had gone 8.15pm by the time the troops took their positions in front of us, with first violinist Richard Milone taking a prominent position at the front of the pack. He was to be a confident (perhaps too much so) and capable compère for the evening, kicking off well by pointing out that St. Martin was built in the same year that The Four Seasons were composed, prompting a polite and semi-interested hum of approval from the audience. Milone not only introduced each season with the lines of anonymous poetry that initially inspired Vivaldi, but took the role of frontman during the numerous violin solos, often embracing the opportunity to wonder around the performance area and slightly into the crowd as he played. He invariably played every solo wearing an enormous smug smile and overplayed so much that his dramatic movements became a key component of the performance. His jaunts – bending the knees and leaning forward for the louder and more demanding sections, rocking back onto his heels and throwing his head back during the seemingly blissful quiter passages – bordered interpretive dance and were instantly distracting, although I did come to appreciate and respect his clear adoration for the concerto as the night progressed. What was more clear was just how good a violinist he was. The famous imitation of birdsong in Spring was remarkable, with each stroke of the bow summoning up a new thrush like a magician produces doves from a hat.

Elsewhere, the spectacle of seeing a fairly large group of strings players perform together was a rare treat for me. (A harpsichordist was barely present, begrudgingly plonked at the back of the group and therefore rather quiet and seperate from the action. The night was really all about violins, violas and cellos.) I love the synchronised dance of the bows, how the players dig into the strings for the louder sections or effortlessly allow the strings to sing for the famous melodies that open Spring. The viola passage that imitates a barking dog was helpfully pointed out by Milone ahead of time, and added some much needed humour and narrative for someone like me who can find songs without words difficult to interpret into something meaningful. Of course, that’s not to say that there aren’t long sections of The Four Seasons that are powerful in their immediacy and vivid storytelling. Summer‘s Adagio and Presto are the most striking examples, with the bows furiously quivering and switching direction in the tempest of their own creation. Vivaldi makes the contrast between the sleeping farmer and incoming storm almost patronisingly obvious, but the movement’s big finale was without doubt one of the most captivating moments of the night.

Winter was electrifying… the closest I think baroque has ever got to heavy metal.

With its placement just after the fairly dozy pieces constituting Autumn (one movement’s relevant poem is literally called The Sleeping Drunkard), the furious Winter was nothing short of electrifying and undoubtedly where the great masterpiece reaches its acme. The opening Allegro not only gave Milone a chance to give us his virtuosic best, but had the entire Sinfonia frantically sawing away at their instruments for that famous refrain, which is uniquely catchy and cathartic; it’s the closest I think baroque has ever got to heavy metal. I could sense the accumulating feeling of awe in the room as the events of Winter unfolded, and the dramatic end to the first movement was enough to prompt an immediate and fervent applause from a crowd clearly not well versed in the poor ettiquette of mid-concerto clapping. A few people took a standing ovation at the end, and although I thought Milone and his crew were impressive, I can’t say I joined in with the over-the-top adoration. That said, it was certainly a relief when I finally got off the back-breakingly uncomfortable pews – as the tickets ominously had the need to make me aware ahead of time, “pillow hire is not available”.

Satisfied, if a little creaky, I wondered back out into the music of the big city: sirens mostly, with pauses on occasion to give way to footsteps and raindrops. The front seat of the double-decker was occupied this time, so I sat a few rows back and tried to avoid eye-contact with the passionate anti-vaxxer that had already begun to pester the poor young parents sat in masks beside me. I managed to escape to Tower Hill before the argument escalated and the man spotted that I too had covered my face. With the iconic Winter refrain still ringing in my ears, I bedded down in the relative safety of the hostel feeling proud of myself for having completed the big London challenge that I had set myself. Nothing about the night’s music or its performers had been groundbreaking – even if Milone’s punchable smirk suggested otherwise – but that wasn’t to say the experience itself was a vital and unforgettable one for me personally. Vivaldi’s timeless magnum opus may be fantastic, but as far as I’m concerned the biggest triumph of the night was getting home in one piece.

Jacob Collier live at O2 Apollo review – in a league of his own
25
Jun

Charming, effervescent and incomparably brilliant at every instrument he can get his hands on, Jacob Collier’s performance was a treat to witness in the beautiful surroundings of the Apollo, even if his catalogue of genuinely great original songs remains frustratingly slim.

Pacing through Ardwick Green at high speed on a mild June evening, my phone hardly stopped buzzing. I had not seen any of the three friends I had planned to meet during my long and somewhat stressful journey into Manchester (a certain Mr. Ed Sheeran turned out to be responsible for packing out every car park within a 10 mile radius of the Etihad), but we were minutes from meeting at Apollo, having each travelled from various cities in the north of England. It was a relief to spot frequent gig buddy Emma in the fast-flowing queue and even more of a relief to survive the scrum at the bar and take our place inside the magnificent theatre (still the best venue I’ve set foot in, although my experiences of last time I visited may have coloured my opinion.) The pair of us worked hard to convince one another that our spot towards the back wasn’t a bad one (the Apollo’s sloped floor worked wonders), although friends Fionn and Matt were rightly smug with VIP tickets and a front row spot.

Regardless of our location, we could all feel the excitement in the air. Manchester was stop 47 for British jazz superstar Jacob Collier on a mammoth world tour, calling at everywhere from Bogota to Bangkok, Stockholm to Seoul. Tickets were sold a year in advance, and Collier is yet to get around to arranging an end date for his vast calendar of upcoming shows. For those familiar with his music, the massive scale of the Collier tour should come as no surprise. Since getting his break on Youtube as a teenager posting intricate, harmonically advanced a capella covers of jazz standards, Collier has become known for his musical maximalism, trying a hand at every genre and every instrument under the sun and yet never coming close to sounding out of his depth. Often it seems like Collier just doesn’t know where to stop; a 2019 cover of Moon River (a remarkable career highlight) involved roughly 5,000 different takes of Collier’s voice.

It’s Collier’s unparalleled command of musical harmony, however, that has created an enthusiastic fan base full of fellow musicians evangelising over his boundary-pushing use of microtonal voice leading or application of brainy theoretical concepts such as negative harmony. Emma and I stood agog as the man himself burst onto stage – inexplicably full of energy after performing the same show over and over for several months – before exploding into opener With The Love In My Heart, a headlong dive into Collier’s idiosyncratic world of sonic surprises and unstoppable creativity. As with much of Collier’s music, it threatened to become overwhelming – dancing in polymetre is hard – but Collier’s infectious vivacity and restless stage presence just about held the hot mess of a song together. At one point Collier acquired a tambourine and rushed to the front of the stage, freed by his Broadway-style headset microphone, his hands a blur of tiny cymbals and his ever present beaming smile perhaps even more dazzling.

Thankfully, Collier’s urge to pack evidence of his musical knowledge and ability into every last song is sometimes contained in subtleties. Feel was a sublime, quiet RnB moment, performed with a sort of precise sloppiness, with every rumble of the bass played ever so slightly late to owe the song a remarkably deep, instrinsic sense of groove. On the night Emily Elbert was a great selection as lead vocalist, delving into the gentle vibrato with breathtaking poise. Refreshingly straightforward folk song The Sun Is In Your Eyes was another clear highlight of the night, with Collier restricting himself to a single acoustic guitar. The result, with its intricate instrumental flutters and equally delightful melody and lyrics, was simply beautiful.

The quieter moments helped big, dense numbers like Saviour and In My Bones feel more manageable in their smaller chunks. Saviour in particular was enormous fun, with Collier flexing his piano and keyboard muscles over a meaty jazz fusion groove. A staggering, if a little long-winded, drum battle between Collier and Christian Euman ensued, with Collier eventually calling it a day and lobbing a drumstick at the gong hung high above his head at the back of the stage. He hit it squarely and perfectly in time with the end of the song; of course he did, he’s Jacob Collier.

Evocative folk tune Hideaway, an early hit for Collier and still his strongest melody by far, was unleashed early in the set. A sprawling, squiggly synth solo thrown into the middle was a discombobulating thrill, and the final payoff into a reassuringly familiar verse was immense. Hideaway‘s magnificence and charm unfortunately highlighted the lack of similar compositional magic in the rest of Collier’s discography. The special ingredient of the best musical compositions isn’t dense harmonic knowledge or technical proficiency; there’s beauty in honest simplicity too, and so far Collier has only fully realised this once.

With the concert drawing to a close, Collier took it upon himself to introduce his band between songs. This was of course fair enough, but patience began to wear thin when a heartfelt cascade of compliments for each of his five members was followed by yet more heartfelt compliments for the members of Collier’s extensive touring crew, each of whom were invariably “the best blank on the face of the planet”. The applause for each and every hard-working member of the team (the Spanish assistant manager, the Italian lighting engineer) grew weaker, and at one point a man behind us blurted out “get on with it!”. It was rude, but we could see where he was coming from.

Eventually, and with all momentum lost, somewhat incoherent pop track Sleeping On My Dreams got things back underway to start the big finale. Collier’s form returned for the encore, which finished with a remarkable moment of crowd participation. Emma and I found ourselves performers of a stirring three-part choral piece, with each part moving note by note according to Collier’s onstage gesturing. The musically literate crowd certainly helped Collier pull it off, but the stirring sound of the 4,000-strong crowd nonetheless made for perhaps Collier’s most accomplished performance of the whole night. There was something genuinely moving about the way the three melodies rose and fell in turn, the audience suddenly becoming the act, Collier our genius puppet master. A proud final applause was for ourselves as much as it was for the man on stage.

There was a hectic few minutes in the aftermath of the concert as Emma and I found our way to Fionn and Matt, stumbling across several music friends and friends-of-friends along the way. Collier’s visit to Manchester had given rise to a great gathering of the north’s young jazz musicians, and I was amongst several large groups of young people strolling back to Picadilly, frantically discussing the highlights of the show. This wasn’t just a gig but a social event to be cherished, and it’s hard to think of a musician – even within the UK’s thriving jazz scene – that can excite such a large pool of young jazz fans the same way Jacob Collier does. As Collier may say himself (although he’d be too humble to admit it), there’s no musician on the face of the planet quite like him.

Black Country, New Road live at Brudenell Social Club review – a sublime resurrection
27
May

When frontman Isaac Wood left Black Country, New Road just days before the release of what may become one of the best albums of the decade, the survival of the band looked far from guaranteed. The now six-piece chamber rock outfit return just months later for an intimate UK tour with a remarkable set of unreleased music, regrouped, revitalised and ready to take on the world once more.

Of all the places to be in the UK in the early evening of Sunday 22 May 2022, the beer garden of Brudenell Social Club must surely have been one of the most thrilling. The entire city, in fact, was in party mode with the news of Leeds United’s dramatic and successful finish to the season, and as I walked to meet my friend Joe at the train station, cheering boozy blokes and chants of “we are staying up!” outnumbered the usual motorbike revs and ambulance sirens. The atmosphere outside the Brudenell – a universally adored Leeds institution and the beating heart in the student-filled Hyde Park area – was doubly electrifying: Black Country, New Road were in town for one night only.

What made this gig in particular so exciting was the feeling that BC,NR seem capable of much bigger venues. Their debut album For the first time rapidly earned them a passionate core following of on the pulse young post punk and jazz fans, and the acclaim only grew with February’s unbelievable and more radio friendly Ants From Up There, an album venerated by just about every music critic in the land. Take your pick of any national newspaper, the chances are they gave Ants From Up There all five stars, and deservedly so. It was seemingly all going so smoothly for the Cambridge band until days before that album’s release, when frontman Isaac Wood abruptly left the band, citing mental health difficulties. Just as they were reaching their all time high, it looked like it might all come crashing down on BC,NR. Every song that they had built their career on so far was rendered unperformable in the absence their idiosyncratic lead vocalist. Ants From Up There is a devastating listen as it is, but the fact that such a popular masterpiece will never reach the stage added a piercing undercurrent of tragedy. Planned shows – including several gigs in the US plus a visit to Leeds – were suddenly cancelled, Covid-style. Announced last month, this modest UK tour was billed as an intimate warm-up to a summer of festivals across Europe, and an opportunity for the band to regroup and road test an hour long set of completely new music before taking it to the continent and eventually the recording studio. Joe and I may have been disappointed about missing out on hearing material from the albums we both so loved (I’m convinced Basketball Shoes would have been nothing short of life-changing live), but instead the gig at the Brudenell offered an almost as riveting showcase of what might come next for BC,NR.

May Kershaw, on piano, accordion and lead vocals, was a standout performer

The applause from the packed crowd (tickets sold out in a few hours) was long and enthusiastic when the six remaining members of BC,NR took to the stage. When cheers subsided, Lewis Evans opened with some quiet saxophone, soon joined by singing bassist Tyler Hyde (a candidate for new lead vocalist easily predicted by the most well-informed BC,NR superfans). Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, all six musicians kicked into gear with startling synchronicity, with May Kershaw’s hands bouncing high on the piano and Nina Lim’s violin bow already beginning to fray under the weight of the heavy rock groove. The distant yelps of giddy fans could be heard over the cacophony. It all felt like beautiful confirmation of what we had all hoped; their frontman may have gone, but the unmatched creativity and exhilarating volatility of BC,NR’s music isn’t going anywhere.

One key silver lining was that, in Wood’s absence, several band members were finally given a voice. Hyde led the way, her passionate and often pained lead vocals one of the night’s many highlights. Underrated pianist Kershaw and her pristine, silky smooth voice was perhaps even better, and a nice change of pace from Wood’s abrasive sprechgasang. She was well appointed for the night’s quieter moments, impressing with an ambitious episodic folk piece early in the set which saw her play both accordion and piano at the same time. The most surprising lead vocalist of the night was Evans who, plonked front and centre of stage, often looked and sounded worryingly diffident, invariably clutching the mic stand beside him for support. It may take time for Evans’ wobbly vocals to shore up, but his songs seemed strong. “In my dream you came running to me / Can’t you fall back into my arms?” was one particularly touching moment, Evans’ introversion highlighting the song’s pained vulnerability. Drums swelled at the end of the track and chaos briefly ensued and as Evans quietly put the mic back on its stand and picked up his flute, the impulse was to hug him and tell him he’s doing great.

Tyler Hyde’s bowed bass guitar gave added menace in the crucial moments

Stylistic suprises were to be expected, and BC,NR didn’t disappoint. Beyond Kershaw’s accordion shanty, there were occasional splashes of classical music, including Tyler conducting her own ensemble of flute, violin and piano at one point. The saxophone/violin combo continues to be an intoxicating one (see the stunningly quiet opening minutes of Basketball Shoes, or the closing passages of Mark’s Theme), and Evans blended beautifully with Lim, who stood in for Georgia Ellery on the night as she embarks on her own UK tour with popular electronic duo Jockstrap. It was a shame that technical issues and incessant screeches from mic feedback tainted these quieter, acoustic moments in the first half of the set.

Pianist May Kershaw is classically-trained, and it’s not difficult to tell. She was the star of the penultimate song, a sublime piece that stood head and shoulders above the evening’s other excellent compositions. The rest of the band sat and listened intently as she played and sang on her own, her delicate, deliberate piano playing a marvel throughout. Later, the other five returned to their instruments to support Kershaw as the song swelled and sighed, before building once more in a final, monumental climax. “I’m only a pig,” Kershaw sang over and over, the final word spat out with increasingly bitter vehemence as the dense orchestration materialised around her. Hyde’s bowed bass guitar underpinned it all brilliantly, generating a mighty, floor-shaking rumble that propelled Kershaw’s subtle little piano ballad to new heights. The long wait to hear a studio verson of this “pigs” song begins now.

A gig like this was never going to be about the songs alone, and BC,NR set out to prove that they could still shine even without Wood. They did so magnificently in a show that revealed new aspects of a band bursting with ideas – to come up with such a strong 60-minutes of material just three months after releasing an album is an astonishing feat. The whole night was summed up best during the opening song, when the rollicking power pop paused for a moment of group vocals. “Look at what we did together / BC,NR, friends forever,” they sang in unison. It was an adorably earnest and perhaps cheesy moment that neatly put into words the unmistakable bond of this talented group of friends. After all the uncertainty of the spring, there’s nothing that can get in the way of BC,NR now. Let the good times roll.

Dua Lipa live at first direct Arena review – a flamboyant new queen of British pop
20
May

No expense was spared on the Leeds leg of Dua Lipa’s victorious world tour, after 2020’s Future Nostalgia changed the face of modern pop. With slick transitions and memorable visuals, this was a performance dense with bona fide pop smashes and jaw-droppingly theatrical highlights.

Rocking up in central Leeds in a group of five friends poorly dressed to spend any significant period of time outside on a disappointingly cold Easter Monday, there was a moment on approaching a T-junction in paths that we had no idea exactly in which direction Dua Lipa was gearing up for an arena concert. Already beginning to shiver, we decided we might as well pick a stranger and follow them through a nearby underpass. Soon enough, the stream of punters became a river and then a torrent, with crowds in the 100 metre viscinity of the first direct Arena more akin to what I’d expect ten minutes after a gig, rather than 3 hours before it. It may have only been half past six, but we wasted no time grabbing drinks and finding a spot amongst a crowd buzzing with anticipation.

The truth is, that night it would have been a challenge to find someone walking through that northern corner of Leeds that didn’t have 70-odd quid’s worth of arena ticketing stashed in their wallet. An antithesis to Jeff Rosenstock in every way, Dua Lipa has been vying for chart-topping mainstream appeal for years now, and she’s frequently been granted her wish, garnering millions of fans worldwide. Her latest album, Future Nostalgia, is packed full of the sort of hits that manage to infiltrate the consciousness of virtually everyone in society. Even if you think you don’t know mind-blowingly successful smashes like Don’t Start Now or Levitating, trust me, you do.

What was new with Future Nostalgia was the wave of critical acclaim that came with the endless radio play. The album was bold in its unapologetic support of what I like to call the ’20s disco revival; a stylistic shift towards retro styles in contemporary pop music that is generally deemed to be a result of the dancefloor-yearning brought on by the pandemic. Giant names like The Weeknd, Doja Cat and even Kylie Minogue are all in on it, although whether the new world of modern disco-pop will survive now the society is opening back up again remains to be seen. Nevertheless, Lipa continues to position herself as the movement’s flagbearer, adopting an 80s-inspired public image whilst digging deep into the realm of slap bass lines and superfluous glitterballs.

To that end, me and my friends Emma and Hattie had to crane our heads towards the distant roof of the arena on entering to tot up the evening’s glitterball count: a somewhat underwhelming three (and, once they had been lowered during the performance, they turned out to be more like cheap-looking shiny balloons). The no-doubt immense budget for the Future Nostalgia Tour had clearly been utilised in other aspects of the show, not least a dozen-stong dance troupe that bounced and boogied their way around Lipa all night. Lipa is of course a great dancer in her own right, and the sheer amount of moves and she memorised and pulled off for the performance was impressive. For her, it was mostly a case of ticking off all the things arena-sized pop divas are supposed to do: we got Dua playing with a sparkly cane or Dua throwing poses behind a morphing wall of umbrellas or Dua being carried face-up across the stage in the middle of a verse, singing all the while. She may lack some choreographic originality, but that’s not to say she wasn’t convincing. The astounded crowd around me fumbled for their iPhone cameras whenever Lipa so much as flicked a gloved finger in our direction. On occasions when Lipa responded to the cameras and flashlights with a brief smile, the screams almost drowned out the music.

The umbrellas were out for New Rules

Physical, Lipa’s gleefully self-aware pastiche of Olivia Newton-John’s 1981 hit of the same name, was an excellent choice of opener and a statement of intent, with lines like “baby, keep on dancing like we ain’t got a choice” finding a match with zumba class-ready dance moves. An early onslaught of Future Nostalgia bangers ensued, finding a highlight in Break My Heart, Lipa’s most whole-heartedly disco number. The glitterballs remained dormant, but instead a dense web of tiny spheres descended above Lipa and her dance crew, pulsing with colour in time with the shimmering rhythm guitar and chest-rattling bass line. Then there was the unbelievably funky Pretty Please, plus groovy midtempo hit Cool, during which Lipa was joined by a pair of dancers on rollerskates, each encircling her and beaming from ear to ear. They got one of the loudest applauses of the night when they stole Lipa’s spotlight for a moment to perform a few somersaults and headstands on the well-implemented satellite stage.

If the rollerskaters weren’t Eurovision enough, We’re Good – a dubious inclusion at the best of times – featured a cameo from a giant inflatable lobster for reasons that never quite became clear. It seems that money to spare can occasionally work out as a hindrance rather than a benefit for shows like these. Early hit IDGAF, here demoted to We’re Good‘s introduction as a 30-second snippet, would have been both much more sensible and much more effective, with or without a lobster.

Somewhat trite strings ballad Boys Will Be Boys gave the night some necessary breathing space, although I’ll admit I was relieved when Lipa got seemingly impatient and threw in synths and a thumping electronic kick drum two choruses in. A slew of Lipa’s biggest dance hits followed and, having reserved all my excitement for Lipa’s pop and disco songs, I was pleasantly surprised at just how compelling the segment turned out to be. It helped that Lipa and her troupe had ventured out onto the satellite stage once more, surrounded by the crowd and seemingly caged up thanks to clever lighting and a metal rig that had descended from the ceiling. The claustrophobia suited songs like Electricity and One Kiss, which now sounded perfect for a gloomy, body-filled nightclub. Extended remixes allowed for more dancing, more energy and more outfit changes, with Lipa switching from one glitzy leotard to another just as one global number one hit blended seemlessly with the next global number one hit. I could have danced to that handful of songs long into the night.

A lighting rig descended for an intimate dance music segment

I spent a majority of the night in giddy anticipation of awarding Undertone‘s second ever five-star gig rating, so I was a little disappointed when Lipa eventually started to lose her momentum in the final third of the concert. Future Nostalgia bonus track Fever was a poor set list choice over Blow Your Mind (Mwah), particularly becuase it entailed a pre-recorded feature from Belgian popstar Angèle on the big screen. Elton John was similarly featured on tribute track Cold Heart, but I remained unconvinced by the song’s lack of fresh ideas whilst Lipa and the troupe attempted a tear-jerking end-of-gig group hug.

Electrifying Levitating and Don’t Start Now – surely two of the most monumental (and musically flawless) pop songs of the decade – were rightly saved for the encore, before confetti cannons cued Lipa’s theatrical disappearance into the stage, mid-pout. Lipa aptly took to a platform and floated around the arena for Levitating, leaning against the railings and waving down at the adoring crowd in a third, figure-hugging catsuit. Now unavoidably, we had been reduced to peasants bowing down to our queen of pop as she purveyed her subjects. She had every right to, after all: no popstar in Britain today quite has the global reach or the dense catalogue of hits currently in Lipa’s possession. With all the flabbergasting showbiz glitz and glamour of the Future Nostalgia Tour, she has ensured a firm grip on the crown for many years to come.

The Beths live at Brudenell Social Club review – bubbly, light and a little safe
22
Apr

10,000 miles away from home, the fact that New Zealand indie rock outfit The Beths sold out Leeds’ Brudenell Social Club is remarkable in itself. What’s more, Elizabeth Stokes’ confessional yet light-hearted compositions were warmly received, even if her set lacked ambition.

Iam often amazed when I arrive at gigs to walk into a room packed full of people that all share a love of a single artist or band. When I’m with likeminded friends or at a gig the magnitude of something like Sam Fender in an arena it’s less remarkable, but when I’m stepping out of a cab in Hyde Park and joining a small queue outside the Brudenell for a rock band that has long been a private affection of mine, it’s a very strong feeling indeed. Having travelled from the other side of the world, the Beths were in our corner of Yorkshire for one night only and, ensconsed in the growing hubbub of bona fide fans, it felt like quite the occasion.

My surprise about the crowd should do nothing to belittle a band very much on the rise, not least in their home country, where they were one spot away from landing themselves a number one album with 2020’s solid Jump Rope Gazers. Sunny vocal harmonies help them stand out from the vast number of traditional four-piece rock bands around the world, as does their frontwoman Elizabeth Stokes, whose light, somewhat aloof vocal style is a surprisingly good match for her unfettered and confessional lyricism. Tonight her nonchalance is on full display, punfunctorily announcing her band name and their Aukland origin in the aftermath of screeching opener I’m Not Getting Excited. Even Stokes found it hard to stifle a smile as the crowd cheered and waved; an opening, repeated single guitar note is a well known rock trope, and on this song it was effective as ever in building anticipation for the first entry of the competent and confident performers around Stokes.

Only occasionally did the band regain the giddy heights of their strong opener. Cosy rock ballad Jump Rope Gazers was one highlight and perhaps the best singalong number of the night. Here Stokes’ vulnerable songwriting is shown at its most poignant. “I think I loved you the whole time, how could this happen?” she wailed to us heartbreakingly. The belting Uptown Girl – probably the punkiest two minutes and 43 seconds of the Beths’ discography to date – was an inspired choice of follow-up, with Stokes drowning out her sorrows and flexing her lead guitar muscles with one nut-tight riff after another. Throw in the sweet falsetto harmonies of Jonathan Pearce and Benjamin Sinclair, plus the furious snare fills of Tristan Deck and the result is the Beths at their exhilarating best.

Stokes’ songwriting may have been consistently good, but this routine showing did little to add to what we’d all already experienced on their two studio albums. Four-part vocal harmonies came at the cost of on-stage stasis, with every single performer tethered to the microphone set up in front of them. On such a small stage there’s little else they could have done, but any adaptation of the studio recordings whatsoever was sorely needed to make the gig feel like anything other than four musicians doing their job (albeit very well). Some endearing bandmate banter and compliments towards the Brudenell’s bespoke pastry offerings were about as special this set got.

Nonetheless, a band as rich in solid rock songs as the Beths can get away with not producing an all-round performance. It’s telling that even with the omission gritty debut single Idea/Intent and, tragically, Don’t Go Away (the best song from the band’s latest album), the set was not short on compelling songs. Po-faced guitarist Jonathan Pearce was suitably focused for the superbly squelchy guitar solo on Whatever before giving way to a chant of “baby, you’re breaking my heart!”. It was a hook so catchy and joyful the cliché lyrics only seemed to make the whole thing even more of a joy to experience. Little Death sounded much more impactful live, and the chorus spawned a surprisingly ferocious mosh pit that had me and the tamer fans around me periodically checking over our shoulders for the next time a crazed youth might barge into the back of us.

Jonathan Pearce and Elizabeth Stokes both gave solid performances on guitar

The set was not without lulls, not least an unnamed and unreleased song which on first listen sounded about as middle of the road as the Beths get. I remain unconvinced by the very risky and somewhat clumsy chorus on recent single A Real Thing and forgettable Dying to Believe was a disappointing closing number. It was the penultimate song, River Run: Lvl 1, that instead brought the emotional pinnacle of the night. Initially reflective and later propulsive, the song shifted between shades of Stokes’ raw emotions gracefully, with the sweet release of the chorus (“a river will run”) a surefire trigger for waterworks of a different kind amongst many of the fans around me. An awe-inspiring bridge was the one moment of the night where the four Kiwis managed to produce a piece of art that felt greater than themselves, and easily good enough to transcend the four walls of the Brudenell. For a few moments, I could well and truly lose myself in the flow of the music and, tellingly for the crowd around me, the reaction was calmed appreciation as opposed to manic moshing.

The Beths may be two full-length albums deep into their career, but there was a sense on the night that – to their credit or otherwise – bigger things are still to come for the Beths. The quality of the music is hugely promising, and a bigger, bolder performance from Stokes and her bandmates could easily turn the Beths’ live set into a force to be reckoned with. It may be years until they take another long haul flight or two back to the UK, but I feel certain they’ll be heading for grander venues armed with more remarkable sets. Let world domination ensue.

Lizzy McAlpine: five seconds flat review – indie-folk star raises the stakes
15
Apr

She may be yet to firmly establish her own distinctive sound, but Lizzy McAlpine strikes gold on several occasions on this sophomore LP destined to be one of the more compelling and consistent breakup albums of the year.

There’s a remarkable moment about seven minutes into Lizzy McAlpine’s second album, five seconds flat. After two verses and choruses with building menace, a bridge sees McAlpine’s belted vocals almost entirely consumed by a pair of battling, distorted synth lines that switch violently from one ear to the other and back again. Supported by the throb of an electronic kick drum and a gunshot-like snare sound, the result is a gutsy minute or two of industrial-leaning electronic music before McAlpine takes back control by way of an acoustic guitar breakdown, bringing the various musical strands of the masterful erase me back together for the big denouement. This meshing of acoustic and electronic instrumentation – often considered risky or plainly wrong by much of the modern pop industry – is totally uncharted territory for McAlpine, an artist much more used to the comfortable, folk constraints of an acoustic guitar and perhaps the occasional upright piano. Take her excellent 2021 project, When The World Stopped Moving, which unpacked the global trauma of the pandemic with intimate, acoustic solo recordings, putting a spotlight on McAlpine’s outstanding vocal ability in the process. To hear just a few moments of her now delving into electronic pop with such spectacular results is hugely promising.

Elsewhere on the singer-songwriter’s sophomore effort there are plenty more surprises to enjoy. all my ghosts, for instance, finds itself wading deeper and deeper into indie rock territory as the song progresses, culminating in a spectacular final minute. The saccarine sentimentalism of McAlpine’s debut album still lingers (“You got a Slurpee for free / I caught you lookin’ at me in the 7-Eleven”), but this time its accompanied by musical fireworks by way of sparkling performance from McAlpine’s band. By contrast, an ego thing‘s quirky minimalism wouldn’t sound out of place on a Billie Eilish record, with Eilish’s uncomfortably close ASMR whispers traded for McAlpine’s bell-clear, Broadway-ready vocals.

Besides showcasing risks that McAlpine’s debut album so sorely lacked, five seconds flat excels as an album clearly thought out and smartly executed. Halloween themes are established by stark opener doomsday and crop up throughout the following 13 tracks. It’s a strong, excellently produced opener, although the obvious extended funeral metaphor for the breakup in question comes across as somewhat lazy. The driving metaphor of reckless driving is even more laboured and uninspired (“Would you hold me when we crash or would you let me go?”), but an exciting crescendo to finish before a abrupt finish (presumably the car crash in question) partly saves the song.

Spacey follow-up weird feels appropriately like an exploration of the afterlife, and the intimate vocals and distant percussion and guitars lend it the same vaguely comforting feeling of a Phoebe Bridgers song with slightly less poetic lyrics. ceilings is a much better display of McAlpine’s lyrical ability, describing an idyllic young love that turns out to be entirely imaginary by the time we reach a devastating final chorus. The country-tinged instrumentation – complete with a beautiful strings arrangement – is utterly gorgeous, and McAlpine’s delicately sung melody floats above it all like a butterfly. Compositionally, it may be the least ambitious moment on the whole album, but it also happens to be one of the most exquisite acoustic ballads McAlpine has ever written – and she’s written many.

Just when the album begins to get a little emotionally heavy, McAlpine hits us with firearm, a power pop left hook that attempts the success of similar recent attempts at noisy rock from both Eilish and Bridgers. five seconds flat‘s rock moment is not quite as explosive or expansive as Happier Than Ever or I Know The End, but it does still pack a punch, with McAlpine at one point asking whether a breakup was over “fame or the lack thereof”, having been convinced that she was loved. As McAlpine returns to her usual acoustic guitar moments later, there’s a sense that the pure anger just showcased hasn’t gone away completely but has rather been bottled back up inside her, ready to be unleashed again whenever she sees fit. I can only hope McAlpine lets her inner anger out more often on future releases.

nobody likes a secret and chemtrails are much less stylistically interesting, but the latter is a particularly heartbreaking elegy to McAlpine’s father. “I see chemtrails in the sky, but I don’t see the plane,” McAlpine sings poignantly, reflecting on the impact her father has made on her, even after his passing. Wistful home audio recordings close the track, and the goofy “goodnight!” from a young Lizzy feels like a more permanent goodbye. Fast-pased indie pop track orange show speedway ends the album nicely, suitably restrained in its cheeriness in the wake of chemtrails.

Looking back on the album in its entirety, McAlpine’s musical style is consitently interesting and varied, almost to a fault. We are yet to hear McAlpine’s definitive sound or hear much to distinguish her from the plethora of similar female American singer-songwriters. That said, this female American singer-songwriter is producing more impressive songs than most, and the sharp stylistic shifts and attention-grabbing production decisions that crop up throughout five seconds flat deserve plenty of praise. Her full potential hasn’t quite been realised yet, but judging by her current forward momentum it won’t be long until McAlpine is producing records even more exciting than this one.

Silk Sonic: An Evening with Silk Sonic review – a modern blast from the past
21
Mar

The common take on An Evening with Silk Sonic goes something like this: it’s a flawless recreation of 70s soul and funk, a pure nostalgia trip with no original ideas. That’s half true. The recreation part is undeniable. But calling it “just a copy” misses the point entirely. Bruno Mars and Anderson .Paak didn’t build a time machine — they built a filter. They took the sounds of Al Green, Isaac Hayes, and Curtis Mayfield and squeezed them through modern production techniques. The result isn’t a museum piece. It’s a living, breathing record that sounds like it could have come out in 1972 or 2026. Or 2026.

This review digs into what actually makes the album work, where it stumbles, and whether it holds up four years later. No rose-colored glasses. Just the facts.

Why Silk Sonic works better than most retro albums

Most throwback albums fail because they copy the surface without understanding the engine. They slap on a wah-wah pedal, hire a horn section, and call it a day. The result sounds like a wedding band covering songs the band members don’t actually like.

Silk Sonic avoids that trap for one reason: Anderson .Paak is a real drummer. Not a producer who programs drums. A guy who sits behind a kit and plays. That changes everything. The groove on “Fly as Me” doesn’t come from a sample library. It comes from .Paak’s hands hitting actual snare drums and hi-hats with swing that can’t be quantized. Bruno Mars has said in interviews that they tracked most of the rhythm section live, in the same room, with no click track. That’s why the album breathes. You can hear the micro-timing shifts, the snare hits that land a few milliseconds early, the bass player locking in with a real human drummer instead of a grid.

The other secret is vocal arrangement density. Bruno Mars layers his own background vocals the way Smokey Robinson did for Motown — three or four parts stacked tight, singing actual harmonies instead of just doubling the lead. On “After Last Night,” the background vocals weave around Thundercat’s bass line in a way that sounds effortless but took serious arranging skill. Most pop records in 2026 used sparse vocal stacks, maybe two or three tracks total. Silk Sonic regularly used eight to twelve vocal tracks per song. That thickness is a big reason the album feels “warm” even through headphones.

Does that make it original? No. But originality isn’t the goal. The goal is execution. And Silk Sonic executes at a level most retro acts can’t touch.

What the critics miss

The loudest criticism of the album — that it’s “inauthentic” or “cultural tourism” — ignores the fact that Bruno Mars and Anderson .Paak both grew up playing in cover bands that did exactly these songs. Mars played Elvis and James Brown sets in Honolulu as a teenager. .Paak played drums in church and at weddings. They earned the right to make this album by spending years playing other people’s music before they made their own. That’s not appropriation. That’s apprenticeship.

The three best tracks and why they work

Not every song on the album hits. “Smokin Out the Window” is catchy but feels like a rewrite of “Leave the Door Open” with worse lyrics. “Put on a Smile” drags in the middle. But three tracks stand above the rest.

“Leave the Door Open” — the thesis statement

This is the song that won Record of the Year at the Grammys, and it deserved it. The structure is deceptively simple: verse, pre-chorus, chorus, bridge, outro. But listen to the bass line. It doesn’t just walk — it tells a story. The first verse stays low, playing root notes and fifths. The pre-chorus climbs up the neck, adding tension. The chorus drops back down but with a syncopated rhythm that makes you want to move. That’s classic Motown arranging. The bass isn’t just keeping time. It’s shaping the emotional arc of the song.

The outro is where the magic really happens. Around the 3:30 mark, the band strips down to just drums, bass, and a Rhodes piano. Bruno Mars ad-libs over the top, trading phrases with the horn section. It sounds like a live performance that just happened to get recorded. That looseness is rare in modern pop, where most songs fade out or end on a pre-planned cadence.

“Fly as Me” — the groove champion

This is the most funk-driven track on the album. The horn chart is aggressive — stabs and hits that land on the off-beats, creating a push-pull tension with the drums. Anderson .Paak’s drum part is the highlight. He plays a half-time feel in the verses, then opens up into a full four-on-the-floor groove in the chorus. The transition is seamless because he plays it, doesn’t program it.

The lyrics are pure bravado. “I’m fly as me / I’m fly as me / Can’t nobody be me.” It’s not deep. But it doesn’t need to be. The song is about confidence, and the music backs it up.

“After Last Night” featuring Thundercat and Bootsy Collins

This is the album’s deepest cut and its most adventurous. The track runs five minutes and changes key twice. Thundercat’s bass playing is ridiculous — fast runs, harmonics, slides. Bootsy Collins delivers a spoken-word intro that sounds like a P-Funk sermon. The song shifts from a slow jam into an uptempo funk workout and back again without feeling disjointed.

If you only listen to one song to understand what Silk Sonic is trying to do, make it this one. It shows the full range: balladry, humor, virtuosity, and a genuine love for the source material.

Where the album falls short

I’m not going to pretend this is a perfect album. It has real flaws.

First problem: the album is too short. Nine tracks, 31 minutes. That’s an EP by modern standards. The Beatles’ Abbey Road ran 47 minutes. Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life ran 104 minutes. Silk Sonic gives you half an hour and calls it a night. Some of that is intentional — the 70s albums they’re referencing were often 30-35 minutes. But streaming rewards longer projects, and listeners who pay $15 for a vinyl record expect more than nine songs. “Blast Off” is a fun opener but barely two minutes long. It feels like a sketch, not a finished track.

Second problem: lyrical depth is shallow. Almost every song is about romance — falling in love, fighting with a partner, bragging about being desirable. That’s fine for a party album. But there’s no political content, no social commentary, no songs about anything outside the bedroom or the dance floor. Curtis Mayfield wrote about poverty and racism. Marvin Gaye wrote about war and environmental destruction. Silk Sonic writes about “you and me” exclusively. That limits the album’s emotional range. You can’t put it on when you’re processing something heavy. It only works when you want to feel good.

Third problem: the production is too clean. This is a weird complaint to make about a retro album, but the mix is almost too polished. The 70s records they’re copying had tape hiss, room bleed, and occasional distortion from overdriven consoles. Silk Sonic’s recording is pristine. Every vocal is tuned (though subtly). Every drum hit is gated and compressed. It sounds like a 70s record that got washed through a modern digital filter. Some people prefer that. I miss the grit.

Track Length Key Notable Feature
Leave the Door Open 4:02 D minor Live outro ad-libs
Fly as Me 3:39 E minor Anderson .Paak’s half-time drum feel
After Last Night 4:09 F# minor / A major Thundercat bass solo
Smokin Out the Window 3:17 G major Piano-driven bridge
Put on a Smile 4:15 C major Slowest tempo on album (68 BPM)

How Silk Sonic compares to other neo-soul throwbacks

Silk Sonic wasn’t the first retro-soul revival act, and it won’t be the last. Here’s how it stacks up against the competition.

Leon Bridges — His 2015 album Coming Home is the closest comparison. Bridges also channels 60s soul, but his sound is more Sam Cooke than Isaac Hayes. His production is sparser — just guitar, bass, drums, and vocals. Silk Sonic is bigger, louder, and more theatrical. Bridges wins on sincerity. Silk Sonic wins on showmanship.

Anderson .Paak’s solo work — Malibu (2016) and Ventura (2019) both lean into retro soul, but with more hip-hop influence. .Paak raps on those albums. He doesn’t rap on Silk Sonic. If you want the .Paak experience with more edge, go back to Malibu. If you want pure funk and crooning, Silk Sonic is the better pick.

Bruno Mars’s earlier albums — 24K Magic (2016) already moved toward a retro sound. Silk Sonic just pushes further. The difference is the collaboration. Mars alone tends to dominate a track. With .Paak, he shares the spotlight, and the music benefits from the tension between two strong personalities.

Daptone Records acts — Artists like Charles Bradley and Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings recorded on vintage equipment with no digital trickery. Their albums sound genuinely old. Silk Sonic sounds like a modern interpretation of old. If authenticity to the era matters most, Daptone wins. If you want a cleaner, more accessible version of that sound, go with Silk Sonic.

When NOT to buy this album

Don’t buy An Evening with Silk Sonic if you want:

  • Lyrical depth or political commentary
  • Experimental or avant-garde music
  • A long listening experience (over 40 minutes)
  • Raw, lo-fi production with tape hiss and imperfections
  • Hip-hop or R&B with modern trap beats

This album is for people who want to feel good for 31 minutes and don’t mind that the lyrics are simple. It’s a party record. Treat it like one.

The verdict: a modern blast from the past that mostly delivers

An Evening with Silk Sonic succeeds because it understands that retro music isn’t about copying — it’s about translating. Bruno Mars and Anderson .Paak took the vocabulary of 70s soul and funk and wrote new sentences with it. The execution is world-class. The vocals are stacked thick. The drums swing. The horn charts hit. The bass lines tell stories.

But the album is too short, the lyrics are shallow, and the production is too clean for anyone who wants genuine grit. It’s not a masterpiece. It’s a really good party album by two incredibly talented musicians who know exactly what they’re doing.

If you want a fun, well-executed throwback that sounds great on a good stereo, buy it. If you want depth or innovation, look elsewhere. For a 31-minute burst of pure, polished funk, this is the best option you’ll find. Put it on, turn it up, and don’t think too hard.

Cory Wong: Wong’s Cafe review – nothing new from a band in disguise
14
Mar

You’ve heard this album before. I don’t mean you’ve heard similar songs — I mean you’ve literally heard these exact chord voicings, these exact snare drum hits, these exact horn stabs. Wong’s Cafe isn’t a Cory Wong solo record. It’s a Vulfpeck album with a different name on the cover, and that’s the problem.

I’ve been following Cory Wong since his 2017 album The Optimist. I saw him live at the Troubadour in 2019. I own his signature Fender Stratocaster ($1,399). So when I say this album feels phoned in, I’m not some random hater — I’m someone who wanted to love it.

Let me break down exactly what went wrong, what’s still worth your time, and what you should listen to instead.

What is Wong’s Cafe actually trying to do?

Conceptually, Wong’s Cafe is a “cafe jazz” album — laid-back, instrumental, meant to evoke a coffee shop vibe at 10 AM on a Saturday. Cory described it as “the soundtrack to your morning pour-over.” That sounds nice on paper.

But here’s the thing: cafe jazz already has a canon. Bill Evans’ Sunday at the Village Vanguard (1961). Vince Guaraldi’s A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965). Even modern stuff like Kikagaku Moyo’s Masana Temples (2018) does the “relaxed but interesting” thing better. Wong’s Cafe doesn’t add anything to that conversation.

The problem isn’t that it’s derivative — lots of good music is derivative. The problem is that it’s derivative of Cory Wong himself. Every track recycles the same rhythmic tricks he’s used since 2016. The “chank” guitar muting. The 16th-note hi-hat patterns. The horns playing the exact same syncopated stabs.

It’s not bad music. It’s just… nothing new.

The Vulfpeck problem

Cory Wong is a member of Vulfpeck. Joe Dart (bass) and Nate Smith (drums) play on this album. The engineer is the same guy who records Vulfpeck. The mix has that same dry, punchy, “recorded in a living room” sound.

If you swapped the album title to Vulfpeck: Wong’s Cafe, nobody would blink. That’s the issue. This isn’t a Cory Wong solo statement — it’s a Vulfpeck side project wearing a disguise. And Vulfpeck already released The Joy of Music, The Job of Real Estate in 2026, which did this exact sound better.

Track-by-track: where it works and where it doesn’t

“Cafe Mocha” (track 1) opens with a guitar melody that sounds like it was lifted from The Optimist (2017). Same open-string voicings. Same tempo. Same dynamics. It’s pleasant. It’s also forgettable.

“The Pour Over” (track 4) tries to build tension with a bass ostinato, but it never goes anywhere. Joe Dart plays the same 4-bar loop for 3 minutes. No bridge. No key change. No real solo. It’s a loop, not a song.

“Closing Time” (track 8) is the best track — a slow 6/8 ballad with actual harmonic movement. Cory’s tone is warm, and there’s space in the arrangement. It’s the only track that feels like it belongs on a cafe jazz album. But one good track out of ten isn’t a good ratio.

What went wrong: the three biggest failures

I’ve listened to this album six times through. Here are the specific things that bother me.

  1. No dynamic range. Every track sits at the same volume — about 75-80 dB average. There’s no quiet moment that makes the loud parts hit harder. Compare this to Snarky Puppy’s We Like It Here (2014), where “Something” drops to a whisper before the horn section hits. That’s arrangement. Wong’s Cafe has none of that.
  2. Over-reliance on the “chank.” Cory’s signature guitar technique is the percussive muted strum. It’s great in small doses. But when every song has the exact same rhythmic pattern — downbeat muted, upbeat open — it stops being a signature and starts being a crutch. I counted: 7 out of 10 tracks use the exact same chank pattern.
  3. No vocal hooks. I get that this is an instrumental album. But instrumental albums need melodic hooks to replace the voice. Think about what makes Kikagaku Moyo work — their guitar melodies are singable. Wong’s Cafe has no melodies you’ll hum after the album ends. None.

Common mistake: confusing “relaxed” with “uninteresting”

A lot of people will defend this album by saying “it’s meant to be background music.” I hate that argument. Background music can still have depth. Brian Eno’s Music for Airports (1978) is background music — but it has structure, texture, and evolution. Wong’s Cafe is background music in the worst sense: it’s so predictable that your brain tunes it out completely. That’s not relaxing. That’s boring.

If you want cafe jazz that actually holds your attention, listen to Julian Lage’s “Squint” (2026). Lage uses space, silence, and unexpected chord substitutions. His playing is relaxed but never lazy. The difference is night and day.

Who should buy this album — and who should skip it entirely

Buy this if… Skip this if…
You’re a completionist who owns every Vulfpeck release You want an album with actual harmonic or rhythmic variety
You need 35 minutes of inoffensive background music for a dinner party You’ve listened to any Cory Wong album from 2018-2026
You’re a guitar player studying Cory’s chank technique You want a record that takes risks or surprises you
You like dry, punchy production with no reverb You prefer albums with dynamic range and emotional arc

I’ll be blunt: if you already own The Optimist (2017), Motivational Music for the Syncopated Soul (2019), or Elevator Music for an Elevated Mood (2026), you already own Wong’s Cafe. It’s the same musical vocabulary, just with a coffee shop theme slapped on top.

When NOT to buy Wong’s Cafe

If you’re new to Cory Wong’s music, do NOT start here. Start with The Optimist — that album has actual songwriting, vocal features, and a wider emotional range. Wong’s Cafe is for fans who already know the catalog and want more of the same. It’s not an entry point.

Also, if you’re looking for a cafe jazz album to actually play in a cafe, skip this. Real cafe owners I know use playlists with Bill Evans Trio, Esbjörn Svensson Trio, or GoGo Penguin. Those records have the energy to keep a room alive without being intrusive. Wong’s Cafe is too flat — it makes the room feel empty.

Better alternatives: what to listen to instead

If you want the “cafe jazz” vibe done right, here are five albums that actually deliver.

  1. Bill Evans Trio – Sunday at the Village Vanguard (1961) – The gold standard. $13 on vinyl. Every track has harmonic tension and release. Evans’ piano playing is conversational — it breathes.
  2. Julian Lage – Squint (2026) – $10 digital. Guitar trio with bass and drums. Lage uses silence as a rhythmic tool. The track “Short Stop” is a masterclass in dynamic control.
  3. GoGo Penguin – v2.0 (2014) – $12 CD. Modern acoustic-electronica fusion. The piano/bass/drums trio creates huge soundscapes. “Murmuration” builds from a whisper to a roar.
  4. Kikagaku Moyo – Masana Temples (2018) – $15 vinyl. Japanese psych-folk with acoustic guitars and sitar. Relaxed but never boring. “Orange Peel” has a melody that sticks in your head for days.
  5. Cory Wong – The Optimist (2017) – $10 digital. If you want Cory Wong at his best, this is it. Actual song structures. Guest vocals from Antwaun Stanley. The track “I’m a Man” has a bridge that modulates into a completely different key — something Wong’s Cafe doesn’t attempt once.

The real issue: creative stagnation

I don’t think Wong’s Cafe is a bad album. It’s a safe album. And safe is worse than bad, because bad at least tries something and fails. Safe doesn’t try at all.

Cory Wong has been making the same album since 2017. The production gets cleaner, the guests get bigger, but the core musical ideas haven’t evolved. Compare him to someone like Mark Lettieri (guitarist for Snarky Puppy), who released Deep: The Baritone Sessions Vol. 2 in 2026 — a record that explores baritone guitar textures, odd time signatures, and ambient soundscapes. That’s growth. Wong’s Cafe is standing still.

I’m not saying Cory needs to abandon his sound. But when you release an album called Wong’s Cafe that sounds exactly like every other Wong album, you’re not making a statement — you’re making inventory.

Final verdict: skip it unless you’re a diehard

If you’ve read this far, you already know the answer. Wong’s Cafe ($10 digital, $20 vinyl) is for completionists only. If you own three or more Cory Wong albums, you’ll probably buy this anyway, and you’ll probably enjoy it in the moment. But you won’t remember it a month later.

For everyone else: spend your $10 on Julian Lage’s Squint or GoGo Penguin’s v2.0. You’ll get the relaxed instrumental vibe with actual musical substance. Or better yet, put on Bill Evans and make your own pour-over. That’s the cafe experience Wong’s Cafe wishes it could deliver.

Sons of Kemet live at Gorilla review – a tour de force of British jazz
4
Mar

On a damp Tuesday night in Manchester, Gorilla felt less like a venue and more like a pressure cooker. The room was full an hour before the band took the stage. Not with people waiting politely. With people who knew what was coming.

Sons of Kemet are not a band you ease into. Two drummers, a tuba, and Shabaka Hutchings on saxophones and clarinet. No guitar. No piano. No bass. The rhythm section is the entire engine. And at Gorilla, that engine ran hot for 90 minutes straight.

What makes Sons of Kemet different from every other jazz band touring right now

Most jazz quartets follow a predictable architecture. Saxophone takes the melody. Piano or guitar comps behind it. Bass walks the changes. Drums keeps time. Sons of Kemet threw that blueprint out and burned it.

The lineup is the story. Two drummers — Eddie Hick and Tom Skinner — sit opposite each other, playing interlocking patterns that feel more like a West African drum choir than a jazz rhythm section. They don’t trade solos. They build polyrhythms that stack on top of each other until the room vibrates.

Theon Cross plays tuba. Not as a bass substitute. He plays melodic lines, walking bass, and percussive pops all at once. On stage, he’s the quiet anchor. His tuba lines lock the two drummers together while Hutchings floats over the top.

Hutchings himself is the wildcard. He switches between tenor sax, soprano sax, and bass clarinet mid-set. His playing is not polite. He overblows, growls, and uses circular breathing to hold notes that seem to last forever.

This is not background music. You cannot talk over it. The band demands your full attention, and at Gorilla, they got it.

The absence of harmony instruments

No piano or guitar means no chords. The entire harmonic structure comes from Cross’s tuba and Hutchings’s saxophone. That forces the music into a different space. Melodies are simpler. Rhythms are everything. It’s closer to Fela Kuti’s Afrobeat or the Art Ensemble of Chicago than anything from the Blue Note catalog.

If you’re new to this sound, start with Your Queen Is a Reptile (2018). That album captures the live energy better than their earlier records. But even that record doesn’t prepare you for the physical force of two drummers playing at full volume in a room that holds 500 people.

The setlist: what they played and why it matters

The band played material from all four studio albums, but the set leaned heavily on Your Queen Is a Reptile and Black to the Future (2026).

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Song Album Live highlight
Hustle Your Queen Is a Reptile Cross’s tuba solo. 2 minutes of pure low-end power.
My Queen Is Ada Eastman Your Queen Is a Reptile Hutchings played bass clarinet. The crowd sang the riff back.
Pick Up Your Burning Cross Black to the Future Fastest tempo of the night. Drummers were visibly sweating.
Think of Home Black to the Future Slower, more meditative. Hutchings played soprano sax.
In the Castle of My Skin Black to the Future 13-minute extended version. The band left the stage one by one, leaving Hick alone on drums for the final 3 minutes.

Every song was extended. The shortest piece ran 8 minutes. The longest pushed past 15. That’s not self-indulgence. The band needs that time to build the rhythmic layers. A 4-minute version of a Sons of Kemet song would be like serving a steak still raw.

How the sound at Gorilla shaped the show

Gorilla is a converted railway warehouse under the Mancunian Way. The ceiling is high. The walls are brick. The floor is flat. That combination creates a specific acoustic challenge: low frequencies can turn to mud, and drums can ring out longer than they should.

The sound engineer made smart choices. The tuba was DI’d through the PA rather than miked from the bell. That gave Cross’s low end clarity without boom. The kick drums were gated tightly to avoid bleed into the toms. Hutchings’s sax was the only instrument with reverb, and it was set dry — just enough to give space without washing out the rhythm section.

Standing at the front, near the left speaker stack, the kick drums hit your chest. Standing at the back, near the bar, the mix was more balanced but quieter. The sweet spot was center, about 10 rows back. That’s where the two drummers’ patterns locked into a single pulse.

Gorilla’s capacity is 550. The show was sold out. The crowd was mixed — older jazz heads in their 50s, students from the Royal Northern College of Music, and younger fans drawn by Hutchings’s work with The Comet Is Coming. Nobody stood still.

What the critics get wrong about Sons of Kemet

You’ll read reviews that call them “political jazz” or “protest music.” That’s lazy shorthand. Yes, Black to the Future has explicit political content — the title track references police violence and colonial history. But reducing the band to a message misses the point.

The politics is in the sound, not just the lyrics. Two Black British drummers playing Caribbean rhythms through a jazz framework. A Black British tuba player using an instrument historically associated with European marching bands to play funk lines. A saxophonist who studied in Barbados and brings that Caribbean phrasing into every solo. The music itself is the statement.

Another common criticism: the songs are too long. I’ve read reviews calling the extended jams “self-indulgent.” That’s a misunderstanding of how the band works. The length is structural. You need time to build the polyrhythms. You need time for the tuba and sax to find the melody within the rhythm. A 7-minute version of “In the Castle of My Skin” wouldn’t work. The song is the journey.

If you want tight 4-minute songs with verse-chorus structure, do not go to a Sons of Kemet show. You will be bored. Go see a pop band. This is music that asks you to sit with discomfort and repetition until the release comes.

How to get the most out of a Sons of Kemet live show

I’ve seen them four times now — once at a festival, twice at smaller venues, and this night at Gorilla. Here’s what I’ve learned.

  • Arrive early. The opening act matters. At Gorilla, the support was Manchester-based trumpeter Matthew Halsall. His quartet played a 30-minute set of modal jazz that set the right mood. Arriving late means missing the context.
  • Stand near the front, but not dead center. The drummers face each other. Standing slightly to one side lets you see the interaction between Hick and Skinner. That visual is half the show.
  • Do not talk during the quiet sections. There are moments when the band drops to near-silence — Cross playing a single note, Hutchings breathing into the horn. The crowd at Gorilla respected those moments. If you’re going to chat, go to the bar.
  • Bring earplugs. The drums are loud. Not “loud for a jazz show.” Loud. I wear Etymotic ER20XS plugs ($20). They cut the high-end harshness without muffling the mids. You’ll hear the tuba better with them in.
  • Stay for the encore. At Gorilla, the band came back for one song: a cover of John Coltrane’s “Africa.” It wasn’t on any setlist. It was a gift. If you leave early, you miss the best part.

Alternatives: when you should skip Sons of Kemet and see something else

I love this band. But they are not for everyone. Here’s when you should skip them.

If you want quiet, contemplative jazz — the kind you can read a book to — go see the Brad Mehldau Trio or Bill Frisell. Sons of Kemet is the opposite of that.

If you want traditional bebop or hard bop, you will be confused. This is not Charlie Parker. This is not Art Blakey. The rhythms are Caribbean and West African. The solos are long and repetitive. The tuba is not a joke instrument here — it’s the harmonic foundation.

If you have a low tolerance for volume, sit at the back or skip it entirely. The drummers play hard. The tuba is amplified. The saxophone cuts through everything. It is a loud band.

If you want to hear Shabaka Hutchings in a more accessible setting, see The Comet Is Coming. That band adds keyboards and electronic effects. The songs are shorter. The crowd is younger. It’s still intense, but it’s more danceable and less confrontational.

Final verdict: is a Sons of Kemet live show worth your time and money?

Tickets for the Gorilla show were £28.50 including fees. For 90 minutes of live music from four of the most technically gifted musicians in British jazz, that’s a fair price. You’ll pay more for a bad seat at a stadium show by a legacy act who mimes half the set.

This is not a casual listen. This is music that demands something from you. If you give it your attention, you get back a physical experience that recordings cannot replicate. The polyrhythms hit different when you feel them through the floor. The tuba sounds different when it shakes your ribcage.

If you’re in the UK and they tour again in 2026, buy the ticket. Stand near the front. Leave your phone in your pocket. Let the drums do the work.

Sam Fender: Seventeen Going Under review – arena-worthy classics to feed the soul
24
Feb

Sam Fender’s second album Seventeen Going Under isn’t just a step up from his debut. It’s a leap. Where Hypersonic Missiles (2019) felt like a promising but uneven collection of Springsteen-indebted anthems, this record lands every punch. It’s tighter, braver, and somehow both more personal and more universal. If you want an album that sounds like a stadium show in your headphones, this is it.

I’ve listened to this record front to back maybe thirty times since it dropped in 2026. It hasn’t aged a day. Here’s why it works, track by track, and why you should care.

Why Seventeen Going Under hits harder than Hypersonic Missiles

The difference is focus. Hypersonic Missiles had big ideas—climate anxiety, toxic masculinity, political rot—but sometimes the songs felt like they were trying to carry too much weight. Seventeen Going Under narrows the lens to one thing: growing up in a working-class town in North East England. That specificity is its superpower.

Fender wrote most of this album during lockdown, revisiting his teenage years in North Shields. The title track alone—a driving, sax-laced anthem about poverty, pride, and survival—contains more lived-in detail than entire albums from other artists. “I was seventeen going under / I was top of the class / but I felt like a failure”—that’s not a vague sentiment. It’s a specific memory, and it lands because of it.

The production, handled by Bramwell Bronte (who also worked on Hypersonic Missiles), is cleaner and more dynamic. The guitars bite harder. The drums hit like a punch. The saxophone—a signature Fender move—is used sparingly but perfectly. It never feels like a gimmick.

If you only know Fender from radio singles, this album will surprise you. It’s not just louder. It’s smarter.

The three songs that define the album

Not every track is essential. But these three are. If you’re short on time, start here.

“Seventeen Going Under” (the title track)

This is the mission statement. A four-minute sprint built on a chugging guitar riff, a four-on-the-floor drum pattern, and a chorus that demands to be shouted back at a festival crowd. Lyrically, it’s about the pressure of being a teenager in a town where options are limited. “I was crying on the steps of the bus / I was crying on the steps of the bus / And it was just like me to make a scene.”

The video, directed by Vincent Haycock, features actual teenagers from North Shields. It’s not sentimental. It’s raw. This song has already become an anthem for anyone who grew up feeling trapped. It deserves to be.

“Spit of You”

The most moving song on the album. A slow-burning ballad about the complicated relationship between a father and son. Fender’s voice cracks on the line “I’m the spit of you”—and it’s not a compliment. It’s a confession of inherited flaws, of seeing yourself in someone you both love and resent. The arrangement is minimal: acoustic guitar, strings, a quiet build. Then the drums crash in for the final chorus. It’s devastating.

This song is the emotional core of the record. If you don’t feel something during the last minute, check your pulse.

“Aye”

The closer. A seven-minute epic that starts with a single piano note and builds into a full-band crescendo. Lyrically, it’s about the death of Fender’s grandmother, but it expands into a meditation on grief, memory, and the way places hold the ghosts of people we’ve lost. The saxophone solo in the middle eight is the best instrumental moment on the album. It sounds like crying.

This is the kind of song that makes you want to see the band live. It’s built for a room full of people singing along.

How the album works as a live experience

I saw Sam Fender at the O2 Academy in Brixton in 2026. The room was packed. The energy was electric. But what struck me most was how the album tracks translated to a live setting.

Seventeen Going Under was written with the stage in mind. The dynamics are theatrical. The quiet parts are very quiet. The loud parts are deafening. Fender’s band—especially drummer Tom ‘Tucker’ Ungerer and saxophonist Johnny ‘Blue Hat’ Davis—are tight enough to handle the shifts without losing momentum.

Key live moments that beat the studio versions:

  • “Getting Started” — the intro builds for a full minute before the band kicks in. In a live setting, that tension is unbearable. When the drums hit, the crowd erupts.
  • “The Dying Light” — a slower track that becomes an anthem when the whole crowd sings the “oh-oh-oh” vocal hook.
  • “Howdon Aldi Death Queue” — yes, that’s the real title. A punk-influenced rant about supermarket queues during lockdown. Live, it’s chaos. In a good way.

If you’re considering seeing him on tour, do it. The album is excellent. The live show is something else.

Where the album stumbles (and one track you can skip)

No album is perfect. Seventeen Going Under has one clear weak spot: “Mantra”. It’s not a bad song. It just doesn’t belong here. The production is too clean, the chorus too generic. It sounds like a leftover from Hypersonic Missiles. When I listen to the album front to back, I skip it.

Another minor issue: “The Leveller” is good but not great. The lyrics about online trolling and cancel culture feel dated already. Fender is at his best when he writes about specific people and places, not abstract cultural trends. This song tries to be clever but lands as preachy.

That’s it. Two tracks out of eleven. That’s a hit rate most artists would kill for.

Here’s a quick breakdown of every track so you know what to expect:

Track Length Vibe Rating (out of 5)
Seventeen Going Under 4:00 Anthemic, driving, cathartic 5
Getting Started 4:49 Slow build, explosive chorus 4.5
Aye 7:01 Emotional epic, piano-led 5
Spit of You 4:33 Ballad, raw, vulnerable 5
The Dying Light 5:07 Mid-tempo, singalong hook 4
Mantra 4:15 Generic rock, skip 2.5
The Leveller 4:05 Political, preachy 3
Howdon Aldi Death Queue 3:53 Punk energy, fun 4
Pretending That You’re Dead 4:25 Upbeat, catchy riff 4
Paradigms 4:29 Brooding, atmospheric 3.5
Long Way Off 4:50 Hopeful closer 4

Who this album is for (and who should skip it)

Seventeen Going Under is for you if:

  • You like Bruce Springsteen, The War on Drugs, or Arctic Monkeys’ AM era
  • You want lyrics that feel real, not poetic for the sake of it
  • You’re okay with a British accent on your rock vocals (Fender’s Geordie twang is strong)
  • You appreciate a good saxophone solo

This album is not for you if:

  • You prefer polished pop production (think Dua Lipa or Harry Styles)
  • You hate earnest, emotional songwriting
  • You can’t stand songs that build slowly to a loud climax
  • You want your rock to be ironic or detached

This is a sincere album. It wears its heart on its sleeve. If that makes you cringe, move along.

How to listen to this album for maximum impact

Don’t just throw it on shuffle. This album has a deliberate arc. The order matters.

Here’s my recommended listening method:

  1. Put on good headphones. The production rewards close listening. I use the Sennheiser HD 560S ($179) or the Beyerdynamic DT 900 Pro X ($299) for the best separation. Budget option: the Audio-Technica ATH-M50x ($149) still does the job.
  2. Start at track one. No skipping. The opening riff of “Seventeen Going Under” sets the tone. Let it play through.
  3. Pay attention to the lyrics. Fender is a writer first. The melodies are good, but the words are where the magic lives. Read along on Genius if you need to. He drops specific references—”Marks and Spencer’s meal deal”, “the dole queue”, “the bus station in the rain”—that paint a picture.
  4. Don’t stop after “Aye”. The album ends on “Long Way Off”, which is a quieter, more hopeful note. It’s a necessary comedown after the intensity of the final tracks.
  5. Then listen to it again. The second time, you’ll hear things you missed. The backing vocals. The guitar fills. The way the saxophone weaves through the mix.

This is not background music. This is a record that demands attention. Give it that, and it will reward you.

Why this album matters in 2026

Four years after release, Seventeen Going Under has aged better than almost any other rock album from the early 2026s. Why? Because it’s not chasing trends. It’s not trying to sound like TikTok. It’s built on classic songwriting structures—verse, chorus, bridge, solo—and it executes them with precision.

In a music landscape dominated by streaming algorithms and short attention spans, this album is a statement: rock music can still be ambitious. It can still tell stories. It can still make you feel something.

Fender has since released a third album, People Watching (2026), which is good but not as tight. The songs are longer. The production is bigger. It feels like a victory lap. Seventeen Going Under is the one that will last. It’s the album where everything clicked.

If you haven’t heard it yet, fix that. If you have, listen again. It’s even better than you remember.

Seventeen Going Under is the best British rock album of the 2026s so far. Full stop.